


That Time Of Year

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder finds Christmas to be an odd time of year</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time Of Year

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mylar Fic prompt: "Home for the Holidays"

Mohinder finds Christmas in New York is best experienced through the movies. In that celluloid world there is a semblance of happiness and attainable joy that seems otherwise out of reach. Maybe it is being far from his mother while all those around him are overdosing on family togetherness. Maybe if he celebrated Christmas in a religious or pagan sense he would feel more connected to it. Either way he takes to cocooning himself in his apartment or lab for most of the month.

The cold and his research are good enough excuses to retreat, but just because his semi-isolation is partially self-imposed does not make it any less lonely to experience. And so when he is not trying to distract himself with work that drives him to intellectual exhaustion he settles for the remote comfort of other peoples--_fake peoples_\--good tidings. It is nice to see others enjoying life who are not game show hosts.

The strangeness of watching these films alone is not lost on him and when Mohinder is feeling poetically stir crazy he ventures out for a brisk stroll. The nip of the cold air on the tip of his nose, the flush of his cheek, and the ridges of his ears used to make him yearn for the burning yellow sun of Chennai, but in time he has come to like the way that the snow settles in his hair and on his eyelashes, the sensation of it melting on the surface of his tongue when he feels bold and innocent enough to open his mouth to the sky.

The extreme temperature binds him to the new world that has come to house his life. It is not perfect but it is his, outside of his father's long reaching shadow, and he will be damned if he gives it up because he is unable to force a genuine connection on terms that even he is unsure of.

He sees it all around him. Hot chocolate in hand, Mohinder peers through the frosted glass of a café and watches the world go by, so wrapped up in itself. Friends laugh together, couples hold hands and pull each other close, children who can barely see beneath wool hats and tightly wound scarves stare at window toy displays with wonder--and Mohinder tries to ascertain where his place is in all of it.

To be fair Mohinder is not completely without family in New York. Blood wise, yes, but he does not need genetics to know that his tie to the Parkmans and Petrellis, and on occasion the Bennets when the mood so allows, is far from tenuous. An effort is always made to include him, especially in holiday festivities, be it Christmas or Hanukah, and out of appreciation he makes the effort to join in.

But he sees the way they all look at him or try to engage him in overly emphatic conversations. They are concerned for his well being the way that all people who feel safety in the numbers of friends and family who love them and immediately surround them feel pity for those who seem mostly on their own. Though their hearts are in the right place Mohinder hates feeling like a lost cause who needs saving or placating.

This Christmas Mohinder decides a change of scenery is in order. To move forward one must step back for clarity of mind. Just hearing his mother's cheerful voice on the phone was enough to lift the weight from his shoulders and convince him it was the right decision. Unfortunately the earliest flight to India is early Christmas Day (the 'what were you thinking?' lesson learned from last minute flight travel) but there is a silver lining. It provides him with a legitimate reason (alibi sounds a bit too seedy) to not feel obligated in accepting Peter's Christmas Eve and Christmas Day invitations.

Being packed early, Mohinder spends most of Christmas Eve double and triple checking his plane ticket, rechecking the list for what is allowed as part of the carry on luggage versus what needs to be checked in, watching A Christmas Story and Scrooged while fielding calls from Peter begging him to change his mind for at least one hour, and finally falling asleep for a good thirty minutes on the living room sofa.

He wakes with a crick in his neck and stumbles to the bathroom, rubbing the muscle roughly for relief. Splashing some water on his face he regards his reflection in the mirror and wonders if some basic grooming might help him avoid a 'random' hassle at security. _Doubtful_, he thinks but does it anyway.

Wiping away the trace amounts of shaving cream that speckle his face Mohinder thinks he hears movement in the living room. He turns the tap off and listens closely. Nothing…then footsteps. With no weapon to speak of (Matt had taken the gun for safekeeping when Mohinder announced he would be going to India for two weeks) Mohinder is at more of a disadvantage than usual. Figuring he can still put up a scrappy fight, he takes cautious steps to the living room.

The sight he is met with is one he is not at all prepared for.

Sylar is sitting on the sofa, hunched forward with his hands clasped together, staring at Mohinder's large suitcase and carry on that are just off to the side. The last Mohinder had heard Sylar had declared a vendetta on the Petrelli figureheads of Angela and Arthur when the truth of their manipulative betrayal (pretending he was their long lost son so they could each wield him as a soldier in their games against each other) had been brought to light.

Sylar had taken up his old method of operation (taking what he felt he was entitled to) with a new vigorous cause (systematically focusing on those who worked for either Petrelli). It was scary enough to hear the details from Peter of the subsequent murders, but Mohinder's greater concern was what would stop Sylar from moving on to innocent Specials once he had succeeded in cleaning house with the Petrellis. The one thing he could be thankful for was that Peter could heal himself, Nathan was at the bottom of Sylar's revenge list, and Matt and Molly seem to have been granted reprieve for a normal life. As for Mohinder, he had time to try to put together protective measures before Sylar redirected his rage.

Sylar sitting in his living room, however, seems a flaw in the logic. Mohinder, trying to remain as quiet as possible, takes a small step forward after curiosity gets the better of him.

“Going on a trip?” Sylar asks without looking up.

Mohinder lets out an annoyed sigh at himself for thinking he could go undetected. “How very perceptive.”

Sylar sits back resting his hands on either leg and looks at Mohinder with inquisitively narrowed eyes under his heavyset eyebrows. Exuding an air of confident authority he says, “When do you leave?”

_None of your bloody business_, Mohinder thinks but he bites his tongue. With uncertainty surrounding the unexpected visit, Mohinder considers it wise to not antagonize the potentially dangerous man just yet. “Tomorrow morning.”

Sylar nods then looks back at the suitcase. Before Mohinder can draw his attention back, Sylar stretches out his hand and calls forth the ticket that is resting on top of the carry on.

“Do you mind?” Mohinder exclaims while Sylar opens the top flap and reads the flight information.

Sylar jerks his head back as if surprised by what he reads. “Going to see your mom?”

“Obviously,” Mohinder says, crossing the room and snatching the ticket out of his hand. “I'll thank you to not go through my things.”

In one swift movement Sylar is on his feet staring down his nose at Mohinder who shifts back slightly, startled at the imposing closeness.

“Why are you here?” Mohinder asks, struggling not to stammer and appear weak.

Sylar waits a moment then smirks. “It's been awhile. I couldn't have you thinking that just because you're out of sight you're out of mind.”

Mohinder looks away, dismayed at being cornered yet again in his apartment by Sylar. Although it is not a regular occurrence, the fact that it happens at all sends his mind spinning towards possibilities he would rather not entertain. Looking back at Sylar he finds the man watching him intently as if noting any and every clue that his face may offer for what is going through his mind. Being regarded so closely is unnerving for Mohinder. It makes him feel _too_ real.

“More like you want something from me.” Mohinder steps by him and places his ticket back on top of the carry on. “What is it? Powers gone again? Run out of people on your list?”

He suddenly feels a cold patch on his neck and yelps as it frosts under Sylar's outstretched left arm. A second later Sylar raises his right hand and sparks an electric currant at him that cracks apart the ice forming on his skin. Mohinder stumbles back and clamps his hands over his neck in self-defense.

“No, my powers are still good.” Sylar's eyes dance with amusement, the reflection of light from above sparkling bright against the darkness of his irises. “We'll save the list for another time.”

Mohinder, mindful of Sylar's aggressive stance, ignores him to tentatively touch his irritated patch of skin. All the while he still notices Sylar beginning a brief stroll around the apartment like he has every right to be there.

Frustration erupts and Mohinder demands, “When is it going to be enough?”

Sylar pauses mid-step, his hands in his pockets, and glances Mohinder's way, his forehead lined with confusion.

“When are you going to stop screwing with me for some perverse pleasure of yours?” Mohinder moves forward but makes sure to stay a decent distance away. He grips his hands at his side in tight fists.

“When I get it out of my system,” Sylar says cryptically and far too self-impressed with the illusion of control he has.

As he continues on with is turn about the room, Mohinder mutters, “Well would you hurry it along?”

Sylar spins on his heels and glides towards Mohinder, grabbing him by his shirt collar. “If you insist, but you running away is putting a kink in my plans,” he taunts with a growl.

Mohinder glares and forcefully shoves Sylar in the chest, the momentum freeing him from the tight grip as Sylar drops his hold.

“I'm not running away,” Mohinder spits out, tilting his head forward. I'm seeing my family for the holidays. Maybe you should do the same--oh wait, you can't. There's no one for you to go home to.”

Feeling self-gratified at the personal jab that hints of no Grays to spend time with and the non-existent ties to the Petrellis, Mohinder takes a distinct pleasure in seeing Sylar's face drop, the smirk gone and wind momentarily out of his sails. Mutually harsh glares of unblinking eyes and clenched jaws take the place of hurtful words. The small distance between them stretches like a finite gulf that threatens to consume, but Mohinder holds his ground. On the occasions when his un-powered self can reduce Sylar to being tongue-tied, Mohinder likes to taste the delectable spoils of war.

He is surprised when Sylar unexpectedly looks away, to the living room where Mohinder's bags are and then to the front door. Mohinder cannot decipher the expression on his face but it is enough to deflate his sense of accomplishment. Reactively he watches Sylar avoid returning his gaze and then even Mohinder is trying to put off eye contact, by staring at his watch, shoes; the kitchen table.

“I'm going to go.”

Mohinder looks back and finds Sylar watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course you are,” Mohinder remarks and he does not need Sylar's curious expression to wonder if that is indeed disappointment in his own voice.

Whatever it is it gives Sylar enough leverage to quirk his right eyebrow and slyly say, “Consider it a Christmas gift. I'll deal with you when you return.”

“I'll be sure to rush right back,” Mohinder says, pulling up tall again and steadying his defiant gaze. He knows this position well with Sylar and feels more comfortable in these premeditated set of expectations.

There is personal and then there is _personal_.

“I know you will,” Sylar says and Mohinder hears an edge to his tone that passes for either sarcasm or frightening perception.

Mohinder is unprepared for the feeling that he is balancing precariously on a razor thin wall. To avoid slipping he accepts silence as Sylar gives him a once over and walks over to the front door, taking his time to unlock and open it, then shutting it with a loud click behind him. Mohinder waits a moment then follows quickly to ensure it is locked. He presses the palm of his right hand flat against the grain, his mind racing, and slumps forward.

After a deep breath he turns and sprints towards the window but stops short. He refuses to give Sylar the upper hand in seeing him gazing down as he leaves. Changing directions, Mohinder sits perched on the edge of the sofa and stares at his bags.

Reaching for the ticket, he sits back and opens it up, staring at the return date.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Drama Fic**
> 
> Mylar Fic  
> **First place for Best Use of Prompt**


End file.
